


An Undertaking of the Sweetest Quality (Fuck Me, Bro)

by dannyPURO



Series: Something Telling [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, First Dates, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kebabs as Expression of Love and Devotion, M/M, Miscommunication, clown to clown communication, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29776833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: “Hey, you know what’s weird?” Bahorel asks, because Feuilly’s not looking at him, and it’s easier, this way. (Feuilly’s watching Enjolras stumble across the bar and plop down heavily at Grantaire’s side, watching him lean his head on Grantaire’s shoulder and watching Grantaire run his fingers through his hair. Bahorel’s mostly just watching Feuilly.)“Nu?” Their ankles kick together; Bahorel takes the opportunity to hook his own around Feuilly’s, to keep him close. “What’s weird?”[...]“Hey-” Good start- “You ever wonder why we never hooked up?” he asks.Shit.AKA, how Bahorel and Feuilly finally get their shit together, while their friends are busy finally getting their shit together.
Relationships: Bahorel/Feuilly (Les Misérables)
Series: Something Telling [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912858
Comments: 18
Kudos: 56





	An Undertaking of the Sweetest Quality (Fuck Me, Bro)

**Author's Note:**

> this is not what anybody asked for. this is not what i promised you. however... this is what i am gifting you, out of the love in my heart. bon appetit.
> 
> this is a direct follow-up to [this tumblr post](https://dannypuro.tumblr.com/post/636252498977587200/you-said-your-askbox-was-open-so-from-something) that i made about bahorel and feuilly's relationship a while ago. it takes place during the bar scene in chapter 7 of Something Telling, while grantaire is busy having a small crisis. you should probably read that tumblr post for context, and at least know the premise of Something Telling, but this also works as a standalone, so..... do what you like! i am not the boss of you.

“Hey, you know what’s weird?” Bahorel asks, because Feuilly’s not looking at him, and it’s easier, this way. (Feuilly’s watching Enjolras stumble across the bar and plop down heavily at Grantaire’s side, watching him lean his head on Grantaire’s shoulder and watching Grantaire run his fingers through his hair. Bahorel’s mostly just watching Feuilly.)

“ _ Nu _ ?” Their ankles kick together; Bahorel takes the opportunity to hook his own around Feuilly’s, to keep him close. “What’s weird?”

Bahorel draws in a deep breath, goes for casual. “I mean. Like. I don’t know, man, just-” Hm. Oh, actually, he’s just a little too drunk for this. Should’ve fucking waited, shit. Feuilly hums again. “I mean, they’re pretty fucking obvious, right?”

Feuilly snorts a laugh. “You’d think.” (That’s what Grantaire’s said about him and Feuilly, Bahorel reminds himself, that’s what everybody says, that’s why it’s fine that he’s bringing it up, if it’s so fucking obvious. If it looks like-)

Across the room, Enjolras is holding Grantaire’s hand. Bahorel wishes he were drunk enough to get away with holding Feuilly’s. He’s done so a couple times over the years, he thinks, but the downside to only doing something when you’re drunk is that it’s fucking hard to remember.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Feuilly. His accent’s stronger, when he’s drunk--not like it was that first year, not quite, but similar enough. It’s cute, hot, whatever. Bahorel kind of loves it. 

Bahorel kind of loves  _ him _ .  _ Really _ loves him. Now he just needs to not fuck this up. Easy.

“Hey-” Good start- “You ever wonder why we never hooked up?” he asks. 

Shit.

Feuilly, beside him, freezes. “Um,” he says, politely, only he’s just about the tensest Bahorel has ever seen him, and he’s seen him pretty fucking stressed, over the years.

Good fucking going, Baz. Jesus.

“Just-” He shrugs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Like, I get why you didn’t think it’d be a good idea, and all, but I just-” he breaks off. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say something like  _ but you could give me a chance, please, please, fucking please,  _ without it sounding like he’s begging. Not that he  _ isn’t _ begging, or anything, but-

Whatever.

Feuilly’s gaze burns, hot, on his cheeks. “Why-” he clears his throat; he must’ve swallowed his beer down the wrong pipe, or something. “Why _ I _ didn’t think it would be a good idea?”

God, he should’ve just waited until he was sober. Feuilly’s always been too smart for him, has always been able to pin him, like this, and now he’s fucking stuck explaining himself like an asshole. “Yeah, man, just-” Shit. Okay. “Like, obviously, we were gonna hook up that first day we met each other, but then you came over to Grantaire’s with me, instead, but I don’t know why we-”

“Obviously?” Feuilly cuts him off. It’s a little sharp, a little urgent, a little rough.

And-

But wait, that doesn’t make sense, why wouldn’t it be-

Oh.

Oh, fucking Christ.

Was- Was he just fucking wrong about all of this? Cause, like, yeah, it’s pathetic to spend five years pining after someone after you almost hooked up with each other, but it is way,  _ way _ worse to do so when you  _ didn’t _ almost hook up with them, and  _ apparently _ , all they did was move a  _ fucking _ couch, and-

Oh, God. Feuilly never even  _ initially _ wanted to hook up with him, and Bahorel  _ knows _ he’s hot, so he must just not be Feuilly’s type, and if he’s not Feuilly’s type, he’ll  _ never _ like him, and-

“Baz.” Feuilly’s got a hand on his forearm, holding him super fucking tightly, like he knows he’s thinking of bolting, and hey, speaking of bolting, that sounds like a really good idea, right about now, but Feuilly’s got crazy strong hands and also Grantaire’s already hauling a very drunk Enjolras out of the bar, so he can’t leave with them, because Grantaire shouldn’t have to deal with  _ two _ lovesick idiots tonight, and- “What the fuck do you mean,  _ obviously _ ?”

His cheeks burn. Fuck. Okay. He just needs to go about this delicately. Which he can totally do. Just- “I mean, I just thought that we were gonna fuck, when we first met. Like, I was  _ sure _ we were gonna fuck.”

Feuilly is staring.

Fuck.

“Oh,” says Feuilly.

Fuck. 

“Not that, like-” he swallows. “Like, I’m totally chill with what we’ve got going now. Absolutely. You’re my best friend, man, I probably should’ve even want to mess with that, anyways, you-”

“Do you?”

Uh. “What?”

Feuilly scrapes a hand through his hair. “Do you want to mess with it?”

_ What _ .

Feuilly’s grip on his arm grows, if possible, tighter. “Did you want me to fuck you, when we first met?”

Bahorel’s kind of fucking stuck, here, Jesus, what is he even supposed to say? “Uh,” he says, because he doesn’t  _ know _ , “Uh, maybe?”

He scowls. “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” he hazards.

Feuilly’s jaw clenches. (Hot.) “Baz,” he says, and Bahorel is  _ still _ too drunk for this. “Come on. What do you  _ want _ ?”

Hard question--Bahorel wants a million fucking things. He wants- “I mean,” he says, “You- Well. You could- you could give me a  _ chance _ , Feuilly, I just- God, I could treat you better than any of those fucking dickheads you date, and it’s not like I’d stop being your friend, either, or anything, if you decided you didn’t want me that way, after, cause I don’t think I ever could, just-” he breaks off, there, because he has said way,  _ way _ too much, and-

“Yeah?” Feuilly hazards. 

Bahorel figures he could just about break his neck, nodding as hard as he is. 

Feuilly frowns, keeps his grip on Bahorel’s arm. “So-” he leans back, a little, in his seat, but Bahorel doesn’t want him to fucking go. “So, what, you want me to fuck you?” he asks.

“I-” he begins, but he can’t quite continue, because  _ yes _ , he wants Feuilly, wants him so bad he can hardly breathe, sometimes, but he just-

He-

He doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself, now, if Feuilly fucks him the once and never holds him close again. ‘Cause apparently he’s fucking soft like that, now. But he doesn’t-

It isn’t  _ like _ when they first met, he can’t just-

He shrugs, anyways, ‘cause fuck, he might talk a big game about fucking  _ emotions _ , and shit, but it’s not like he’d say  _ no _ , not fucking ever. “I just-”

Feuilly waits.

Damn it.

“Let me take you out,” he blurts. Feuilly’s still fucking staring; he feels like he’s heart’s about to beat out of his chest. “Let me take you out on a date, one date, Feuilly, c’mon, and if you don’t- if you’re not feeling it, after, I won’t even make it weird, we don’t even have to fucking talk about this again, I just-” he swallows. “I kind of just- I want to. So.”

There is a long, heavy, awkward pause. “Oh,” Feuilly says, eventually, and Bahorel  _ would _ want to bury his face in his hands, right about then, if it weren’t for the way that Feuilly’s voice has gone very, very soft, all of a sudden. “I didn’t- I didn’t know that.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Well.”

It’s not quiet, since the bar around them is anything but, but it certainly fucking  _ feels _ it. 

Feuilly’s grasp on his arm softens into something a little warmer. “Okay,” he says.

Uh. “What?”

“You can take me out on a date. Okay.”

And that’s-

Holy shit.

Holy  _ shit _ .

Bahorel needs to-

“Shit.” He fumbles for his wallet, waves the bartender down as best he can, but the asshole is still over by Jehan, and he needs to  _ go _ , and-

“Well, you don’t need to take me out  _ now _ ,” Feuilly says, but-

“No, I totally do,” he says, and he downs the dregs of his drink, in the meantime, because- “Cause if I don’t take you out now, you’ll change your mind, and then you’ll never-” he finally gets a hold of the fucking bartender, gets him to close off his tab and gets him to put Feuilly’s on his card, too, because Feuilly’s going on a  _ date _ with him, so he doesn’t get to complain.

When he turns, as the bartender is ringing up the total and getting their cards, Feuilly is looking at him. “I wouldn’t change my mind,” he says, soft.

Bahorel’s not fucking risking it. “I mean,” he says, and he manages a laugh, but it just sounds a little frantic, “I mean, you did before, dude. So, like, sorry if you’d rather go out for lunch or something, but-”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Cool, okay, than-”

“I didn’t change my mind. Before.” Bahorel kind of misses when his voice was just all kind and soft, just a minute ago--it’s gone all sharp, again, all harsh.

And. Um.

That’s-

That doesn’t make any sense.

The bartender hands them their cards back. Bahorel can’t really  _ move _ , though, is the thing--he’s still trying to figure out what the fuck Feuilly is talking about, still trying to work out how it pairs with the fucking  _ look _ on his face. Feuilly reaches around him and takes them both, then hauls Bahorel up with a hand around his arm, all urgent-like. 

“Feuilly?” he hazards. 

Feuilly grimaces. “I didn’t-” Across the bar, Jehan is watching them both very, very intently. “Just-” he pulls Bahorel towards the door, away from their friends and the bartender and the almost-crowd and outside and onto the street, and- “I didn’t change my mind,” he says, again. He’s lit up stark and gorgeous by the streetlights; Bahorel can’t tear his fucking eyes away. “That first day, right? That’s what we’re talking about?”

He nods, pinned. Feuilly looks kind of annoyed. Feuilly’s kind of scary when he’s annoyed. He’s also kind of  _ hot _ . 

“We  _ never hooked up _ ,” Feuilly says, and Bahorel can tell when he’s throwing his own words back at him, and, like, way to make him sound like a dick, “Because  _ you _ didn’t want to. I thought you did, and I tried to kiss you, and you changed the subject and made an excuse and fucking left. Don’t act like it’s my fucking fault. Dickhead.”

That’s-

“I-” Holy shit. “I wanted to,” he chokes out.

“Don’t be a dick, Baz.” Feuilly shoves his hands in his pockets, starts walking away, but- but  _ no _ , Bahorel was supposed to take him out on a date, Feuilly was supposed to give him a  _ chance _ , he can’t just-

“I’m serious!” He stumbles, trying to catch up, but Feuilly’s fucking  _ speedy _ , when he wants to be. He trails after him, anyways.

“Baz.”

“I’m  _ serious _ !” 

Feuilly turns on his heel. Bahorel doesn’t catch the movement right away--can’t quite stop in time to keep from crashing into him. “You’re always- You’re always making a  _ fucking _ joke out of everything, is what you are! You don’t have to lie to me, you know? I  _ know _ you.” He takes a breath--in, and then out. “And I also know what happened when we first met, so I don’t appreciate you telling me otherwise. I made an ass of myself, you were really polite about rejecting me, you haven’t brought it up again. I appreciate that. Just-” he rubs at his brow. “Yeah.”

Uh,  _ no _ . 

“Uh,  _ no _ , dude, that’s not-” He thinks back--thinks back to Feuilly, five years younger and a little sweaty from the whole  _ hauling a couch up five flights of stairs _ thing, with barely any French and a look in his eye that was sharp and clever and fucking  _ hot _ , and of the way he’d leaned in, and how Bahorel’s heart had been pounding like a fucking sledgehammer, and-

Oh.

Oh, shit, that’s-

Cause,  _ yeah _ , he pulled away, but not because he wasn’t  _ into _ Feuilly. He just- “I wanted you to meet my fucking  _ friends _ , dude.” God, this is all going to shit. He hopes- Maybe Feuilly will go easy on him, since he’s drunk--maybe he’ll have the decency not to bring it up, tomorrow, if it all goes awful.

Oh, God, Bahorel was supposed to get to take him on a  _ date _ , fat fucking chance of that happening now, oh, man, he’s never going to fucking get over that. 

Feuilly still looks pissed. “Yeah, ‘cause you didn’t want to hook up. You weren’t exactly-”

“Cause you were fucking  _ lonely _ , Feuilly!” It comes out too loud, too sudden; at least it’s enough to stop Feuilly from- from saying shit that doesn’t make any  _ sense _ , and he- “And I- I figured, we could just hook up later, after you met some people, if you still wanted to. Which. Clearly you didn’t, but I didn’t- I didn’t exactly know that you wouldn’t want to, later, at the time. So.” He scrubs a hand over his face. Shit. This is a fucking trainwreck. 

Feuilly stills. There’s something indecipherable written all over his face, but Bahorel can hardly bear to look. 

It is painfully, horribly long before he speaks. “I thought that was an excuse,” he says, eventually, slowly, softly.

Bahorel can’t manage anything but to shake his head. He just- He just wants to go home, honestly. This shit sucks. Maybe he’ll call Grantaire and cry about it a little, that’d be nice. 

“Oh,” says Feuilly. 

“Sorry.” He presses the palms of his hands to his brow, takes a second to swallow back the tightness in his throat. “Anyways. Um. Yeah.” He swallows. “Fuck.”

Feuilly is- is  _ staring  _ at him; his throat bobs, a false start that Bahorel fucking  _ recognizes _ , because he  _ knows _ Feuilly, and he knows what it looks like when he’s got the thought all put together in Polish, or in Yiddish, and he’s only just realized that he has to put it all into French before he can speak. 

Bahorel just doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to take hearing whatever it is that he’s going to say next. Which, like, dick move on his part, but he’s no stranger to that, anyways. “Anyways.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I’ll-” he swallows- “I’ll see you Tuesday?”

And-

He hadn’t been expecting for Feuilly to look so fucking  _ stricken _ . He’d have thought Feuilly would be  _ happy _ for him to just go the fuck home, to sleep it off, not- “I thought-” He breaks off.

Bahorel waits.

Feuilly fidgets with the zipper on his jacket pocket. (Bahorel can’t help the way his gaze drops to his hand, to the way his fingers curl.) His jaw clenches. “I thought- You said you were going to take me out on a date,” he says, finally. His voice is shot, ragged. Bahorel’s always thought he smokes too much. 

But he-

_ What? _

Fucking-

_ “What _ ?”

“You said-” Feuilly glances around, but the street is- not empty, but empty enough. “You said you were gonna take me out, though.”

And, like. Like, yeah, he had, but that was before-

He can’t quite bring himself to move.

Feuilly groans, rubs a hand over his eyes. “‘S just- Fuck, I shouldn’t have- Shit. Listen, I’m drunk, I shouldn’t have- I don’t-” He swears again. “I just-” His hand is still halfway out of his jacket pocket; Bahorel kind of wants to hold it. Maybe he could. 

“Didn’t think you’d still let me,” he admits, instead.

He thinks Feuilly takes a step forward, then, but it’s hard to tell; his heart is kind of pounding, here. “No,” says Feuilly, “No, I- I really would, Baz, I-” 

Oh, man. 

Feuilly is looking at him helplessly, sweetly, desperately. Oh, man, oh man.

Bahorel could do a fucking jig, right about now; he settles for a very subtle fist-pump. (Feuilly snorts, so like… maybe it wasn’t  _ that _ subtle, but whatever.) “What, dude, you like me, or something?” he prods. (Maybe he just wants to hear it, okay, whatever, whatever.)

He scowls. “I’m not gonna say it if you’re gonna be a dick about it.”

Bahorel’s pretty sure he knows, anyways, but- “I’m not gonna take you out unless you say it,” he shoots back, because he  _ knows _ Feuilly, because Feuilly knows him, because he knows he can be a little bit of a dick and Feuilly won’t leave. 

Feuilly glares a little more. Bahorel meets his gaze, yeah, but he can’t stop fucking smiling. Feuilly, finally, groans. “ _ Vey iz mir _ , Bahorel, just-” He huffs. “Fine. Yes, I like you. Yes, I’ve liked you for ages. Happy?”

“Yeah,” he says, beaming like a fucking sap. He slings an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders, jostles him a little as they start walking. Spiky motherfucker. “Hey, I kind of love you, dude,” he says.

Feuilly finally, finally laughs, all breathless and beautiful. He also presses in a little closer, also wraps an arm around Bahorel’s waist. Bahorel’s heart fucking flutters. “Where are we going, anyways?” He is so, so warm against his side.

“Date,” he says, because it’s true. “‘Cause you like me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I got that. I just thought to ask, considering how it’s past one in the morning, and it’s not like anything’s actually open. Gonna buy me a pack of cigarettes and a bag of chips?”

Ah.

Well.

Bahorel hadn’t exactly been thinking that far in advance. That-

That certainly puts a wrench in the plan. Shit.

“Jehan would kill you,” Feuilly, very kindly, reminds him. 

He winces. “Uh,” he says, very eloquently.

“Baz.”

Shit. God, yeah, okay, he should’ve- he should’ve thought this out better, probably. “Or we can just go tomorrow, or something.” He almost manages to make it sound casual, almost. “I mean. I was totally joking when I said we had to go tonight, anyways, I’m not  _ that _ much of a freak.” He moves to pull his arm away from Feuilly’s shoulders.

Feuilly grabs his wrist before he can do so, lets the arm he’s got around Bahorel’s waist hold a little closer. “No,” he blurts.

“Uh.” He doesn’t really know what that-

Feuilly sighs. “No, I- I want to. To go out with you tonight, that is, I-” He swallows. “Look, I-” He grimaces, looks to Bahorel. 

God, Bahorel loves him. “Don’t strain yourself, dude.”

He scowls. “Could you just- I’m trying to tell you that I love you, could you lay off?”

Which-

Ha. Haha.

Oh, holy shit.

“Holy shit,” Bahorel breathes. He- 

Feuilly  _ loves _ him. 

_ Feuilly _ .

Holy shit. 

He clears his throat; his cheeks are very, very warm, all of a sudden. “Like. Like, seriously?”

Feuilly quirks an eyebrow. “I mean, that or I’m lying.” 

Which. Like. Um. “Are you?”

“No,” he shoots back, then, “I wouldn’t- You know I wouldn’t lie about that, right?” And there’s something that’s gone a little uncertain, in his face, in his voice, and the thing is, Bahorel  _ does  _ know that, because Feuilly is a little spiky, sometimes, but he’s also the kindest fucking person he’s ever met, and he  _ loves _ him, and-

Oh, man. Oh, man, he’s totally going on a date with his best fucking friend. Because they  _ love  _ each other. Fucking-

Nice.

“Yeah, I know.” He jostles Feuilly a little--soft, careful; Feuilly nestles in a little closer. “You’re repressed, you’re spiky, I know. Wanna get a kebab with me?”

“As a date?”

He nods. He doesn’t think that Feuilly sees it, though, because Feuilly’s taken a moment to press his face into Bahorel’s shoulder, just for a second. (Bahorel’s pretty sure his heart flutters hard enough to constitute a medical risk.) He clears his throat. “Yeah. As a date.”

Feuilly holds him tighter, still; lets himself be held.

They get kebabs.

The place they like is still open, always open, and it’s halfway between the bar and Feuilly’s apartment, and Feuilly gets the same thing every single time so Bahorel orders for the both of them. Feuilly wanders off to the corner of the shop, starts clearing spare napkins and clutter off the corner table with the wobbly leg. Bahorel can feel his gaze on him as he orders, as he waits.

When he turns to bring their food over, Feuilly is watching him.

“Got you fries, too,” Bahorel says, which isn’t what he meant to say, but it’s hard not to get distracted when Feuilly’s looking at him like that. 

He wonders-

He wonders if Feuilly might want to kiss him tonight, or if he’ll want to wait. God, Bahorel really hopes Feuilly kisses him. Oh, man, he really wants Feuilly to kiss him.

“Thanks.” Feuilly kicks out the chair for him as he draws near, hands full. “Did you get-”

“Yes, I got you the extra sauce.”

Feuilly bites back a smile. Bahorel hands him his kebab; their fingers brush, just for a moment. 

He sits down. Feuilly…  _ looks _ at him. Bahorel makes a start on his food, in the meantime, because Feuilly talks when he wants to, he knows that. He figures he could spend hours, just sitting with Feuilly, fucking  _ days _ ; fuck, well, he  _ has _ , and it’s-

Well. Now he’s in love with him, is the thing. So. Yeah. It’s fucking nice. 

He reaches over, steals one of Feuilly’s fries. It’s only fair; Feuilly totally nabbed half his beer, back at the bar. And Feuilly-

“Holy shit,” says Feuilly, finally. “You took me out on a date.”

Bahorel nods. He takes a bite of his kebab, too, but mostly, he’s just focused on looking at Feuilly, now, who is lit up very nicely in the shitty fluorescents of the restaurant and who is slowly growing a little redder in the cheeks and who is looking right back at him with wide eyes. “Told you, didn’t I?” He asks. 

Feuilly clears his throat. 

“You smoke too much, man,” Bahorel adds, because that’s what he always does.

“Yeah,” says Feuilly, and then he scrubs a hand over his face. “But- But you were. You were serious. You actually.” He doesn’t quite finish his thought, there, but Bahorel knows him, knows where he’s going with that. 

He kicks at Feuilly’s ankles under the table. “Like you? Uh, yeah, totally. I mean, like, in the spirit of honesty, here, I am totally fucking gone for you. Ask Grantaire, I’ve been insufferable for  _ years _ . I mean, fuck, if I knew you’d let me take you out on a date, like, fucking  _ ever _ , I would’ve-” 

And-

And he breaks off, then, because Feuilly’s reached out, under the table, and taken Bahorel’s hand in his own. Which…  _ Nice _ . Bahorel’s also pretty sure that Feuilly’s hand is shaking, just a little, just softly; Bahorel holds onto it a little tighter, lets himself rub his thumb against the back of his palm. 

He swallows. (He’s pretty sure his heart is beating so fast it’s a health hazard, but, like, whatever. Totally worth it.) “Your kebab’s gonna get cold.”

“Mind your business,” says Feuilly, but he unwraps his kebab anyways, one handed--one handed, because he’s still holding onto Bahorel’s hand like a fucking vice. Bahorel squeezes back. 

Bahorel’s ringtone goes off in his pocket, too loud; he turns the ringer off with his free hand before he turns back to his kebab, back to Feuilly. 

Feuilly frowns. “Isn’t that Grantaire’s ringtone?” He asks, around a bite of his food. 

He shrugs. “Yeah.” He steals one of Feuilly’s fries, then another one. Feuilly lets him, doesn’t even smack his hand away like he sometimes does. 

“Aren’t you going to…” He fades off, raises his eyebrows. (Bahorel takes a minute, just to- to  _ look _ at him, now that he can.)

He startles back to himself when Feuilly clears his throat. “Oh, like, answer it?” 

Feuilly nods. 

“Nah, I don’t care.”

“Oh,” says Feuilly, but he’s smiling into the back of his hand like Baz just bought him a six-pack of his favorite shitty beer. “Okay.”

They eat. Feuilly keeps his hold of Bahorel’s hand.

Bahorel’s phone rings again; He ignores it, again. 

Feuilly snorts. “I bet Enjolras kissed him, that’s why R’s calling you. Freaking out about it, probably.”

Bahorel laughs, too, but mostly just because Feuilly is still smiling; mostly just because Feuilly knows him, his friends, all of it, so fucking  _ well _ . “I mean, not that I doubt that Grantaire would freak out-” he takes another bite of his kebab- “I just- C’mon,  _ Enjolras _ ? You think  _ Enjolras _ would make a move?”

Feuilly lets out a sigh so dejected that Bahorel is suddenly very, very sure that he has been privy to slightly more discussions on  _ Enjolras making a move _ than he would necessarily prefer. “I fucking hope so.”

“Huh.” That’s- Huh. Kinda weird. “So you think he'll have kissed Grantaire.”

“I think Courfeyrac told him to.” Beneath the table, their feet kick together. Bahorel can’t quite tell if it was intentional on Feuilly’s part, or not. He hopes so.

He hopes-

Ha. He wonders, again, what it would be like to kiss Feuilly. Fuck, Feuilly’s always had such a nice mouth, and he- He’s just the right mix of sharp and sweet, and Bahorel’s seen him kiss people a few times, over the years, and he never let himself look too long but he  _ knows _ it would be fucking good, and maybe Feuilly would do that thing he does, sometimes, where he lies his hand on the back of Bahorel’s neck, just for a moment, and-

“Baz?”

“Huh?”

“You dropped some lamb.”

He swears. Feuilly passes him a napkin. His phone buzzes, again; he ignores it. “Well, you’ve got my kebab hand, bro, I’m gonna drop lamb.”

Feuilly winces. Shit. “Sorry.”  _ Shit.  _ He moves to drop his hand from Bahorel’s, which is- which is  _ so _ fucking far from what Bahorel wants. Bahorel grabs it back, tugs to make a point.

“Well, I didn’t mean for you to  _ stop _ ,” Bahorel says, once he’s sure that Feuilly isn’t going to try to extract himself again. “I just think it’s awful bold of you to critique my kebab technique, that’s all.”

He rolls his eyes, but Bahorel can see the way he’s biting back a laugh, can feel the way he holds on to Bahorel’s hand a little tighter. “I can’t stand you,” he says. 

“Liar,” says Bahorel. He steals another one of Feuilly’s fries. 

Feuilly watches him. He watches Feuilly.

(He thinks about kissing Feuilly, thinks about holding him close, thinks about biting at the jut of his collarbone that sticks out, too sharp, from his tee-shirts in the summer, sometimes.)

“Hey, I think we should probably finish, soon,” says Feuilly, and Bahorel realizes that he has been staring pretty blatantly at the curve of his lips. “We’ve been sitting too long, the kebab guy’s giving us looks.”

He swallows. “‘Kay,” he says. He doesn’t really- 

He doesn’t really know what that means, though. The date is over, probably. Or- Maybe? Maybe not? Feuilly’s still fucking  _ looking _ at him, his gaze burning hot and familiar as Bahorel gathers up tinfoil and wax paper, and Bahorel wants- he wants-

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He fumbles to shut it off, swears, nearly drops it, but Feuilly doesn’t comment on that, just-

“C’mon.” Feuilly cocks his head towards the door. Bahorel can’t do anything but to follow him out of the shop, out onto the street. 

“That was nice,” Bahorel hazards, once they’re on the sidewalk, just a little too close together (not quite close enough.) “I thought.”

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” says Bahorel. “So. Um.” He doesn’t want Feuilly to leave, doesn’t want it to be over so soon, not when he can’t even believe his own fucking luck, yet, and-

“Come with me?” Feuilly says, and he’s not even looking at Bahorel, but Bahorel  _ knows _ him, knows the tense set to his shoulders, knows the way he’s clenching his jaw, and obviously, obviously,  _ obviously _ .

He nods. Obviously.

Feuilly, after a moment of hesitation, reaches out, slips his arm into the crook of Bahorel’s. He’s really, really warm against Bahorel’s side.

Bahorel swallows. “Where are we-”

“My place.”

That makes sense. Feuilly lives close, close enough to walk. They hang out at Feuilly’s apartment all the time. Feuilly’s got a nice second-hand couch and he puts all his art up on the walls and he’s always got some of that shitty beer he drinks in the fridge and he’s got a  _ bed _ . A  _ bed _ .

Not that-

Okay, not that he’d be  _ opposed _ to a little bed-action, or anything. He’s not stupid. He’s been dreaming about Feuilly’s dick for just about as long as he’s known Feuilly himself. So if that’s, like, an  _ option _ …

Whatever. What matters is the fact that-

That-

Well, that, fucking  _ yeah _ , Bahorel wants to fuck him, but if Feuilly kisses him, he’s pretty sure he’ll  _ die _ . He’s never, ever wanted anything more. And Feuilly is letting him walk him home, and Feuilly’s weirdly old-fashioned, sometimes, and Bahorel knows how it goes, you walk someone home and kiss them on the stoop in front of the door, and Feuilly doesn’t even  _ have _ a stoop, but he’s sure got a fucking door, and-

“Baz.”

“Huh?” He turns to look; Feuilly’s very, very close, just for a moment. Like he was looking at Bahorel’s jaw, or, like, his mouth, or something. Oh, man.

“I-” Feuilly’s throat bobs. He stares for another few seconds, then- “It’s fine.”

“Oh.” They’ve stopped; Bahorel doesn’t know why they’ve stopped. Or when they stopped. “Can I still come-”

“Yeah.” Feuilly starts walking, again. Bahorel stumbles after him.

They keep walking, round the corner onto Feuilly’s street, stop in front of his building. Bahorel keys in the code at the door with numb fingers; Feuilly’s gaze fucking  _ burns _ at the back of his neck, as he does it. 

“You know my building code,” Feuilly says, once they’re in the elevator, and he’s holding onto Bahorel’s hand, again. He sounds surprised, which is stupid. 

“Course I know your fucking building code,” Bahorel jostles him, maybe a little too rough, but Feuilly laughs, and some of the tension drops from his shoulders. “I only come over four times a week, that’s not enough for you?”

Feuilly shoves him back, and he’s smiling, and Bahorel fucking loves him. “I should get the building to change it. Make you get some fucking manners and call ahead, for once.” The elevator doors open; Feuilly hauls open the grate with a clatter. “C’mon, dickhead.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bahorel hovers at Feuilly’s back as he unlocks the door, as he brushes his fingers to the mezuzah, as he-

As he- 

Shit, as he hauls Bahorel close and gets an arm around his neck and  _ kisses  _ him, hard and fucking desperate. Which-

_ Oh _ . 

Oh, man. Bahorel fumbles to keep up, manages an arm around his waist and another at the back of his head, in his hair, and Feuilly’s walking them backwards but he hasn’t even shut the fucking  _ door _ , yet, and Bahorel should really- really--Feuilly bites at his lip--really get that, but he can’t bring himself to-

His back hits hard against the wall, rough and jarring, and he gasps for breath and Feuilly just kisses him sweeter. He groans; Feuilly breaks away, eyes wide. Bahorel can’t tear his gaze from his fucking  _ lips _ , wet and a little red and-

“Um,” says Feuilly, and his voice is wrecked, Jesus, and Bahorel doesn’t even think it’s from the cigarettes, this time. “Was that- Was that… yeah?” He swallows; his throat bobs. Bahorel wants to fucking lick it.

Bahorel fumbles to shut the door, then- “God, Feuilly, I-” he manages, and then he’s reaching for Feuilly, again, because there’s something thick in his throat, and Feuilly’s looking at him a little shocked, a little watery-eyed, too, and he  _ needs _ . Feuilly meets him halfway, doesn’t even protest when Bahorel cups his jaw in his hands, just leans into the touch. And-

And oh, man, there’s a moment, there, where Feuilly’s just fucking  _ looking _ at him, and Bahorel has wanted him, loved him, for so  _ long _ , and-

“Baz,” Feuilly chokes out, like he’s pleading, like Bahorel wouldn’t do anything for him, like Bahorel’s ever been able to say no to him, like he’s not about five seconds from dropping to his knees and fucking begging. “Baz, I-”

“Yeah,” Bahorel says, and he kisses him. Feuilly kisses him back, almost-sharp and frantic, and he walks them forward through the narrow hall and into the living room, and Bahorel just- Bahorel just had a beer on the couch the night before, and now Feuilly’s pressing him forward, past the curtains that block off the bed from the rest of the room, and Bahorel’s calves hit the side of Feuilly’s shitty mattress, and he  _ wants _ . “Hey,” Bahorel says, when he pulls away, because Feuilly’s- Feuilly’s still kissing him like he’s terrified Bahorel is going to leave, and it’s  _ nice _ , but it’s also a little concerning. When he lays a hand on Feuilly’s chest, his heart is pounding. “Hey, Feuilly, Fee, hey.”

Feuilly just holds him tighter, bites at the corner of his jaw, and he’s so warm under Bahorel’s hands, and-

“Feuilly.” He gets a hand in Feuilly’s hair, another on his neck, and Feuilly pulls back, all reluctant-like. God, he’s fucking pretty. Or, like, hot, or something. “What are you-” He clears his throat, reaches for Feuilly’s jacket, the hem of his shirt- “Can I-”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, but he shrugs his jacket off, all the same, and he lets Bahorel follow it to the floor with his shirt, pulled up over his head. 

“Fuck,” Bahorel manages, which isn’t exactly what he’d been meaning to say, but-

But  _ fuck _ , he’s fucking gone for him. He just wants--Feuilly’s staring him down, jaw set all harsh, hands taught at his sides like he’s fucking daring Bahorel to do anything but want him, but he just wants-- “Feuilly.” He clears his throat. “Hey, Feuilly, c’mere.”

Feuilly draws in a deep, shaking breath, then steps forward. His hands land somewhere around Bahorel’s waist, move to untuck his shirt. Bahorel kind of wants his hands on him forever. “This isn’t really where I was expecting tonight to end up, back at the bar,” he admits. He slides a hand up, lets his fingers settle along the contours of Bahorel’s ribs. 

Oh, man. Bahorel wraps an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders, noses a little closer against his cheek, wills himself to conjure a single fucking word to mind. “But, like.” Feuilly pushes his shirt up a little further-- _ very _ distracting. “But, like. It’s good anyways, though?”

Feuilly snorts a laugh. He was near before; now he’s just a hair’s breadth away, impossibly close. “Yeah, good anyways. Obviously,” he says, and then he’s kissing Bahorel again.

Bahorel could fucking  _ swoon _ . Feuilly kisses  _ well _ , Jesus, and Bahorel  _ knows _ he’s biased, knows Feuilly could give him a peck on the cheek and he’d just about keel over, but this is  _ different _ , this is Feuilly kissing him so soft and hot and fucking lovely, and Bahorel kisses him back and never, ever wants to stop, not with the way that Feuilly’s pressing forward, kissing a little harder, a little sharper, holding a little tighter, and-

Bahorel trips back against the side of the mattress. He falls back, sudden, against quilts and old blankets, and Feuilly laughs at him but follows him down. “Ow,” he says, because Feuilly’s mattress  _ is _ a little hard, honestly, and he wasn’t expecting it, but mostly because it’s funny.

“Yeah, yeah.” Feuilly scrubs a hand over his face, collects himself, and then swings a leg over to straddle Bahorel’s lap. Which. That’s. That’s- Oh, Jesus, oh, God. “C’mon, take your shirt off, fair’s fair.”

He takes his shirt off. His chest kind of burns, with how much he wants Feuilly, right now.

Feuilly lays one of those pretty fucking artist hands on his shoulder. “Nice,” he says, softly. Which. Haha. Honestly.

“Are you serious?” Bahorel prods at Feuilly’s ribs. “That’s all you have to say?  _ Nice _ ? I strip for you and that’s all you’ve got? What are you-”

“All  _ you _ had to say was  _ fuck _ ,” Feuilly shoots back, and- well, that’s true, but it also reminds Bahorel of the pressing matter at hand, which is,  _ fuck _ , Feuilly’s on his fucking  _ lap _ , and  _ shirtless _ , and-

“I think you’re the prettiest guy I’ve ever met in my fucking life,” he breathes, because it’s true. 

Feuilly blanches. “Baz-”

“I-” God, Feuilly’s on his fucking  _ lap _ , how’s he supposed to- “I’m serious, man, I-” he noses at the corner of Feuilly’s jaw, because his heart’s pounding like a motherfucker, and- “I mean, I never even really-” He swallows. He’s never gonna fucking manage this, Jesus. “I  _ told _ you, dude, I told you, I’m totally in love with you, okay? It’s always been- Yeah.”

“Oh,” says Feuilly, very soft. His throat works. “Well. I- I love you, too. So.”

Bahorel just has to kiss him, he fucking has to. And Feuilly’s still fucking touching him, his hands warm and steady and kind of callous-y, actually, which Bahorel fucking  _ knew _ would be hot, and then-

And then, actually, Feuilly’s hands sink a little lower, over his stomach, to skim the edge of his pants. He chokes on a breath, breaks the kiss to press his forehead to Feuilly’s collarbone, and he smells like sweat and like smoke and like a bar, and Feuilly says, “What do you want?”

Oh, God, oh, fucking God. He bites at Feuilly’s shoulder, then gets distracted and just kisses it, kisses up his neck, a little. Feuilly shudders beneath his hands. “Dumb question, dude,” he manages.

Feuilly pops the button on his jeans. There’s not much leverage, what with Feuilly on top of him and two pairs of denim in between, Bahorel knows that, but his brain isn’t exactly listening to much logic except  _ Feuilly’s hand very near his dick _ . “I could fuck you,” he offers.

Bahorel nods so hard he knocks Feuilly in the chin with the top of his head. Feuilly swears at him in Polish, but then he’s scrambling to get off Bahorel’s lap and to get his pants off, so it can’t have hurt all that badly. He wiggles out of his own jeans, in the meanwhile, half sitting, half lying down, and it’s not very smooth at all, and they get caught around his ankles because he forgot to take his shoes off, first, but when he untangles the whole mess and gets it all off and looks up again, Feuilly’s already pushing him back onto the bed.

God, but he’s fucking beautiful. Bahorel reaches for his hips, fumbles to slow him down so that he can get a proper look, and Feuilly humors him, lingers propped up on his knees over Bahorel’s lap, and he’s fucking  _ stunning _ . Fucking  _ hot _ . Fucking- “Feuilly,” he chokes out, “Baby-”

Feuilly lets out a laugh, frantic, sweet. “Yeah?” He feels like there’s a lot of layers to that question. Bahorel doesn’t really have time to think about all of them, but he’s pretty sure they’ve all got the same answer, anyways.

“Yeah.” He wants to kiss him, he wants-

Feuilly leans over him to reach for a drawer in his nightstand. His cock presses, hot, to Bahorel’s side. Bahorel takes the opportunity to get his mouth on Feuilly’s chest, to bite a little at his collarbone, and his skin is warm and soft and when Feuilly swears and fumbles with the condom he’d grabbed, Bahorel just licks at the spot again. He kind of wants to give Feuilly a hickey. Mostly because now that he’s got his mouth on Feuilly’s neck, he’s really not inclined to let up anytime soon, but also because it would be funny. Also, because Feuilly’s always had the tendency to press at a bruise, to keep it dark for a little longer out of absentminded distraction, and he’d run his fingers over it for days, right where Bahorel’s mouth would have been, and-

Feuilly’s fingers weave into his hair, holding him close. Which.  _ Yeah _ , Bahorel can fucking work with that. He gets an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders, bites a little harder at his collarbone, and then Feuilly’s other hand is slipping down his stomach, around the curve of his hip, back over his thigh, and-

And then Feuilly’s hand is on his dick. It’s slick, too--Bahorel didn’t even see when he grabbed the lube, but, to be fair, he was a little fucking distracted. He wonders-

“Hey, what brand of lube do you use?” His voice breaks a little, in the middle, but it’s only because Feuilly’s still touching his dick.

“I- What?” Feuilly pulls back to look at him, but at least he’s still jerking him off.

“What lube do you use?”

He frowns. “Wh- _ Why _ ?”

Bahorel shrugs. “I don’t know, man, I like knowing shit about you.”

Feuilly shuts his eyes for a moment, lets out a groan that is neither fully sexy nor fully exasperated. “I don’t know, Bahorel, honestly, just-” he kisses him. Bahorel kisses back, lets himself sink into the feeling of Feuilly’s tongue in his mouth as Feuilly tugs at his thighs; he spreads them, hikes one up around Feuilly’s hip. 

Feuilly presses a finger, slick, to Bahorel’s hole.

“Oh, God,” he chokes out, against Feuilly’s lips.

He smiles, Bahorel can fucking  _ feel _ it, and it’s one of those really fucking kind ones, the ones he gives Bahorel sometimes when he thinks he isn’t paying attention. Ha. Idiot. Bahorel’s always paying attention to him. But also- “Tell me what you like,” Feuilly murmurs, close. He lets out a shuddering breath. “I’d- I’d give you anything you like, Baz, you know that, just-”

“Keep kissing me,” he chokes out, but- Oh, man. They’re probably gonna have some stuff to talk about, after this. “Please, Feuilly, c’mon, I-”

Feuilly kisses him, and he slips a finger inside.

Bahorel  _ keens _ . Feuilly’s really gonna fuck him.  _ Feuilly _ . He’s pretty sure he’s never wanted anything more since the day he met him, and it’s gonna  _ happen _ . And Feuilly just keeps kissing him, because Bahorel asked him to, and Feuilly said he’d do anything Bahorel asked him to, because-

Because Feuilly loves him, oh, God, loves him the way he loves Feuilly, he  _ said _ so, and-

Feuilly’s finger brushes up against his prostate; he moans, scrabbles to pull him closer.

“Do you want-”

“Yeah,” he says, and when Feuilly adds another finger, he mouths over his jawline, letting the kiss get sloppy, because he can’t- he can’t-

Feuilly groans when he bites him and groans when he bites him again, and he ruts up against the back of Bahorel’s thigh, where it’s propped up, and Bahorel just holds him tight and kisses anywhere he can reach because he never, ever wants it to stop.

Bahorel forces himself to draw in a breath. “But hey, you know what actually-” he moans, when Feuilly twists his wrist just right- “what actually is weird, though?”

“Huh?”

“What we were talking about earlier,” he manages. He noses under the curve of Feuilly’s jaw; Feuilly shudders. “At the bar. About what’s weird.”

Feuilly lets out a breathless little laugh. “I don’t know, Baz, what’s weird?” Which is encouraging, but also, he adds another finger, which is  _ wonderful _ , but it doesn’t exactly help him to make his point.

“Just-” He takes a moment, shuts his eyes and focuses on the feel of Feuilly against him, in him, around him- “I don’t know, I just- I-” Feuilly presses up a little harder against his prostate; he chokes out a moan- “I just-”

“What?” He kisses Bahorel, brief and sweet. Bahorel tries to keep the contact, when he pulls away, but Feuilly just gives him another peck and does something wicked with his fingers. 

“Um.” He can’t stop looking at Feuilly’s fucking mouth. “I just- I thought- Where I was  _ going _ with it was, it was weird that we never. Um. That.” Feuilly kisses his cheek, the side of his lips- “I just. I knew that we would be this good together, you know? I just thought it was weird that, now that- Now that I know you  _ do _ like me, in retrospect, it’s weird that it took this long.” God, that took a lot of effort to get out coherently.

Feuilly grimaces. “Um.” 

He frowns. “What?”

Feuilly grits his jaw, for a moment, but then just sighs. His movements still. (Bahorel would complain if Feuilly didn’t look so embarrassed. As it is… weird.) “I kind of-” he sighs, again; he’s not quite meeting Bahorel’s gaze. “I kind of thought you were fucking Grantaire, for a little while. Maybe.”

Bahorel gapes at him. What? “Fucking- What?”

He winces. “It’s not- I didn’t think it was  _ weird _ , or anything, I didn’t  _ mind _ , I just- It kind of made sense. That you and him would be fucking. Casually, you know? So I thought that if-” he goes to scrub a hand over his face, then seems to realize it’s covered with lube and pulls it away quick. Bahorel fucking adores him. “I thought that, if you obviously didn’t mind fucking your friends, you would have. Um. You would have gone to me, if you wanted me. And you didn’t, so. Well. I thought you didn’t.”

He has to sit up a little, for that one. Feuilly’s fingers slip out of him; he mourns the loss deep within his soul. “You think I fucked  _ Grantaire _ ?” That’s- That doesn’t make any sense. “Grantaire’s way into Enjolras, you know that.” That’s pretty much one of the fundamental known facts of the world, at this point. Fuck, even  _ Marius _ knows that.

“Well Enjolras wasn’t  _ around _ , at the time, okay?” Feuilly blurts. (Which- Huh. Yeah, Bahorel kind of forgets that, sometimes.) “He was busy… doing treason, and stuff. Writing essays, I don’t know. And you and Grantaire started hanging out more, and I moved, and  _ we _ started hanging out  _ less _ , and-” he lets his forehead thud forward onto Bahorel’s collarbone. “I don’t know, okay? I just-” He breaks off. Bahorel’s pretty sure he’s smiling a little, anyways, though; he can hear it in his voice.

“Baby.” He prods at Feuilly’s ribs. “Baby, were you  _ jealous _ ?”

Feuilly groans. “ _ Vey iz  _ fucking _ mir _ , Bahorel, will you ever leave me alone?” 

“Will you ever fuck me?” He shoots back.

Feuilly snorts a laugh. “I shouldn’t. Asshole. I’m trying to confide in you.” He props his chin up on Bahorel’s chest, and he’s grinning. 

“Confide your dick in my asshole, why don’t you.”

And then Feuilly’s laughing again, helpless and dorky and everything Bahorel’s been thinking of for  _ years _ , and Bahorel can’t help but to reach out, to card his fingers around his ear, through his hair, around to the nape of his neck. Feuilly ducks to kiss his palm; Bahorel’s heart flutters. Judging by the flush that’s risen to Feuilly’s cheeks, his heart has, too. 

But-

“I am serious, though,” he says, once Feuilly’s caught his breath, and then his dick brushes up against Feuilly’s stomach, and, oh, yep, that’s- they should- “You said you’d fuck me, man, you said-” He swallows. “You said you’d-”

Feuilly stares, just for a moment. Then- “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, let’s- Let’s do that. Let’s-” He jolts back into action, fumbles for the lube and a condom, pulls at Bahorel’s legs until they’re up around his hips again, and yeah, fucking-  _ yeah _ , that’s what Bahorel’s been fucking dreaming of. He rolls the condom down over his cock, strokes himself down with the lube, and then-

And then he’s pressing into Bahorel, centimeter by fucking centimeter.

That’s-

That’s-

Oh, actually, that’s-

The breath he lets out comes out as a keen, desperate and shameless, and Feuilly doesn’t even laugh, he just looks down at him with wide, wide, eyes. 

“Good?” Feuilly grits out. He’s paused, half in. His thighs are trembling. 

Bahorel has never, ever known anything better. “Uh huh.”

“Good,” says Feuilly. His voice breaks. “That’s good, that’s-” Bahorel really wants to kiss him, but he’s not sure he can move. “Can I-” 

“Fucking  _ please _ .” Bahorel wants- He wants- “Feuilly, baby,  _ please _ .” 

He nods, holds Bahorel a little tighter, and then-

And then he’s pushing in further, not quite as slow as before, and it burns, just a little, but Bahorel doesn’t fucking  _ care _ , because that’s Feuilly, his best friend, the love of his fucking life,  _ inside _ him, and he’s panting for breath against Bahorel’s cheek and he is so fucking good, and Bahorel still wants to kiss him, so he tilts his head to do so, and Feuilly kisses him back, sloppy and wet and deep.

Bahorel wraps his legs tighter around Feuilly’s waist; Feuilly groans; his hips twitch forward; Bahorel  _ wants _ .

“Move,” he chokes out, against Feuilly’s lips. “I want-” He breathes. “You said you’d give me whatever I want, I want-”

Feuilly bites at his lip; he swears. “Yeah,” he murmurs, and then-

And then he moves, because he said he would. Because Bahorel asked him to. He rolls his hips forward.

Oh, God.

“Oh, God,” Bahorel groans. It is so, so good, raw in all the right places, and Feuilly’s still kissing him, and-

“Fuck.” Feuilly presses the word to his lips, to his cheek, jagged and soft. “Bahorel,” he says, and then he draws back, and when he thrusts back in, Bahorel’s vision whites out, just a little bit. 

“Yeah,” he manages, “Yeah, yes, just like that, Feuilly,  _ please _ .” 

And Feuilly gives him more, because he asked. He fucks forward, sets a rhythm that stirs something in his gut and drags at his fucking  _ brain _ , and Bahorel moans. He hitches Bahorel’s hips up a little higher, grips them hard with those beautiful fucking hands of his, and on his next thrust the angle changes and-

“ _ Oh _ ,” Bahorel gasps-

And Feuilly says, “Yeah, okay,” all casual, and-

And then oh, God, it is fucking good. Feuilly fucks him faster, kisses him harder, and Bahorel just kisses back and lets his hands wander hips-back-shoulders and fucking  _ enjoys _ it.

Feuilly’s- Feuilly’s too good, really. He shouldn’t know how to fuck Bahorel like this, not the first time, but he  _ does _ , and he’s moaning like Bahorel’s the only thing for him, too, just in the same way, and-

Feuilly gasps, pulls away from the kiss to bury his face in Bahorel’s hair, and Bahorel can’t think to do anything but to kiss across his cheek, down his neck, to bite dark at Feuilly’s throat until a bruise purples, there, and Feuilly’s- Feuilly’s gonna see it tomorrow, because he loves him, and-

He-

He can’t  _ think _ , not with the way Feuilly’s cock hits so fucking good, not with the way he can hear Feuilly’s breath, ragged, in his ear, not with-

“Feuilly,” he grits out, after a thrust that drags particularly fucking sweetly, and then, because he can’t even bring anything else to mind, “Fucking- Love you,” he says.

Feuilly lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. “Yeah, I-” he draws in a breath. His hips stutter, just for a moment, breaking rhythm before he finds it again, harder than before, faster than before. “I-” he bites at Bahorel’s jaw. “I-” His fingers clench at Bahorel’s hips; he wonders if they’ll leave bruises, he wants- he thinks he wants that, wants something there- “I- I love you too, always have, Bahorel, I-” 

Bahorel lays a hand to the side of his neck, brings him up to meet his gaze. Feuilly’s pupils are blown like crazy. He’s looking at Bahorel like Bahorel is something incredible, not to be believed; Bahorel kind of knows the feeling, himself. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

Feuilly presses their foreheads together, slick with sweat. His hips falter, again. “And-” he breathes. “And, um, the date?”

He kisses him. “Yeah?”

“Do we get to-” He shuts his eyes. “Do- You said you loved me, do you- Do you want- Would you want to-”

“Go out with you again?” Bahorel offers, when Feuilly can’t quite find the words to finish the question.

Feuilly hums. He keeps fucking him, but his eyes are very, very wide.

“Good luck getting rid of me,” Bahorel says, which is the truth. “I’d take you out every fucking day, if you’d let me,” he admits, and that’s true, too, and Feuilly kisses him until a particularly sweet thrust, and then Bahorel breaks away to breathe, because-

Because, oh, man, he is- 

He is a lot closer than he’d realized. Like-

“Feuilly,” he chokes out. Feuilly’s hips break from their rhythm, fucking foward unsteadily, jerkily, and it’s  _ still _ good. “I think-”

Feuilly nods, bites at his throat. “Not a-” he lets out a ragged moan. “Not a fucking problem.”

Bahorel gasps a laugh. “Yeah, okay.” He runs a hand down Feuilly’s spine; he’s fucking shaking. 

“I’m gonna-”

He presses a kiss to the top of his head, clenches down, and-

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Feuilly spits out, and his fingers dig into Bahorel’s hips, almost hard enough to hurt, and then he’s coming. In Bahorel’s  _ ass _ . (In a condom, in Bahorel’s ass, to be completely honest, but that’s not-) “Oh, fucking-” He groans. Bahorel holds him close and fucking revels in it.

He collapses down on Bahorel, after, limp and heavy and warm. He pants against Bahorel’s neck. One of his thumbs traces little circles over the sore spots on his hips. 

Bahorel is so, so close. He just needs-

Just-

“Baby,” He manages. “Feuilly-”

Feuilly nods, lazy, against his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, and then he slips a hand around to tug at Bahorel’s dick, and Bahorel  _ knows _ those hands, and he gets in a few, firm strokes, and-

Bahorel comes. He curls around Feuilly, grabs at him; Feuilly just holds him, just the same.

After, when his vision has cleared, he draws in a deep, cool breath of air. 

“Oh,” says Feuilly, whose head is still on his chest. Bahorel is kind of inclined to try to keep it there. 

“That was nice,” says Bahorel.

Feuilly bursts out laughing, bright and easy. And then he stops, because they both wince, sensitive, but he’s still giggling to himself as he pulls out. Bahorel gets the feeling.

They lie down next to each other on Feuilly’s tiny little bed. 

Feuilly’s hand makes its way into his own. Bahorel takes it, obviously, holds it tight. 

He presses his lips to Feuilly’s shoulder. It’s just- It’s fucking  _ nice _ . Really fucking nice. Feuilly loves him, that’s pretty much the nicest part about it. Feuilly kissed him, that’s a strong second. Feuilly just fucked him up the ass, that’s a really close third.

“Hey,” Feuilly fiddles with his hand. 

Bahorel fucking loves him. “What’s up?”

Feuilly shifts a little closer. It’s not subtle, like, at all, but Bahorel can tell when Feuilly’s feeling anxious, so he doesn’t mention that at this particular time. He takes a deep breath. “You can stay the night. If you want.”

“Okay,” Bahorel says, and so he does.

**Author's Note:**

> if you comment i shall love you forever. perhaps even enough to write one (1) or more of the fics i actually promised you guys. food for thot.
> 
> say hi on [Tumblr](https://dannypuro.tumblr.com/)


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